Recently, I was invited to Iceland to participate in a ‘Symposium on Aesthetics’ in cooperation with the University of Iceland, the Iceland Academy of Arts, and the Living Art Museum. Over 30 people from a wide range of disciplines – artists, writers, curators, critics, philosophers, a psychoanalyst, scholars, and clergy – spoke at the symposium, which was perfectly timed to coincide with a rare polar solar eclipse. The conference was held at the Snorrastofa Cultural Centre for Medieval Studies (www.snorrastofa.is) in Reykholt, a small community an hour north of Reykjavik, and one of the earliest farms settled in the country.

An intriguing farm-mound at the site is comparable to another at Bessastadir, the home of the President of Iceland. Reykholt is also known as the historic home of Snorri Sturluson (1179-1241), poet and author of the celebrated Norse Sagas The Prose Edda (tales from Norse mythology), Heimskringla (Orb of the World), St. Olaf’s Saga, and Egil’s Saga. I felt as if I was walking in the footsteps of William Morris, who had travelled to Iceland in the 1870s to see the ancient sites chronicled in Snorri’s sagas.

In Reykholt there is only one ancient structure left intact, and it was built by Saga-man himself – Snorri’s hot tub. The geothermally heated pool (Snorralaug) is one of a few constructions preserved from Iceland’s mediæval period. The hot tub is constructed of hand-hewn lava, cut and tooled to exact measurements, so precise that the blade of a knife cannot be thrust between the stones. It’s similar to the cyclopæan stonework of Tonga and Easter Island – I didn’t know such masterful ancient masonry existed in Iceland.

The hot water in the pool comes from Skrifla Spring through a canal, another of Reykholt’s oldest structures. Recently, next to the hot tub, a secret tunnel has been unearthed. The walls of the passageway are made of stone and lead north-west, and were at one time connected to Snorri’s farm house. It was here on 11September 1241 (an early 9/11 connection?) that Snorri was brutally assassinated with a battle-axe, by order of King Haakon IV of Norway. “Don’t strike!” were, apparently, Snorri’s last words. The poet’s final utterance was initially taken as cowardice (as Vikings were supposed to await a death by the sword in order to enter Valhalla).

Later, it was reinterpreted as a bit of Christian moralising, inasmuch as Snorri was obviously quoting the Fifth Commandment, “Though shalt not kill” (Exodus 20: 13). The place felt heavy with history and positively ghostly at times – a feeling only heightened by my awareness that the spirit of Snorri is known to haunt the vicinity.

It was truly remarkable that the marathon three-day Symposium on Aesthetics could avoid being boring and academic. In fact, it had many high points, including the talk of French novelist Marie Darrieussecq, who compared the mystic messages spelled out on a Ouija board to the act of writing. Artist Susan Hiller screened a video entitled Belshazzar’s Feast, referring to the Biblical story of the mysterious writing on the wall interpreted by the prophet Daniel – here replaced by the paranormal phenomenon of alien faces manifesting on blank TV screens. Darian Leader, psychoanalyst and founding member of the Centre for Freudian Analysis and Research in London, lectured on the lusciously bleak subject of mourning and melancholia in art. Gauti Kristmannsson, from the University of Iceland, presented his spirited paper “Ghastly Aesthetics: the Appearance of the Ghost on Stage.” Úlfar Bragason, from the same institution, lectured on the splendidly morbid theme of “The Art of Dying.” Halldór Björn Runólfsson, from the Iceland Academy of Arts, spoke about the perpetual death and resurrection of art in his “eschatology of art.” As an unscheduled extra, the Very Reverend Geir Waage of Snorrastofa Church gave an enlightening talk on the life of Snorri Sturluson, accentuating each important point with a snort of snuff from his carved goat-antler snuff horn.

I thought Snorri’s hot tub would be the perfect vantage point from which to view a singularly spectacular solar eclipse – an eclipse that was visible only from remote polar regions in Iceland and Greenland. One of the best viewing locations happened to be the southeast coast of Iceland, precisely where we were located. In the odd geometry and beauty of this eclipse, the Moon’s shadow (penumbra) crosses the Earth’s surface at a specific segment of the polar region, but the Moon is too distant for its disc to completely obscure the Sun, so a flaming ring (or ‘annulus’) of sunlight surrounds the Moon.

What makes this eclipse so rare was its occurrence during the time of the Nordic “Midnight Sun” when there is continual daylight in the Arctic. As I simmered in Snorri’s boiling hot tub (wearing sunglasses smeared with soot so as not to burn my retinas – an old Icelandic trick I had picked up), the lunar disc slowly traversed the face of the solar orb. By chance, I saw the reflection of the eclipse on the pool’s surface. At that moment something struck me like a thunderbolt from Thor’s hammer: I felt as if the spirit of Snorri entered me, and everything was in perfect alignment. The solar ring of fire was perfectly echoed by the circle of rocks surrounding the pool – making Snorri’s infernal hot tub a damned mediæval astronomical observatory!

And by incredible coincidence, precisely 30 years earlier to the day, Richard M Nixon became the first American president to visit Iceland, meeting the President of Iceland, Mr Kristjan Eldjarn, in Reykjavik. Oh, the inane synchronicity of it all!

As part of the symposium, I had arranged for a meeting/performance with the fifth and current President of Iceland, Mr Ólafur Ragnar Grímsson. “Grim” is such a pleasant-sounding name, I reflected, and thought of the Brothers Grimm. The English word “grim,” meaning stern or gruesome, comes from the Old Icelandic term “grimmr,” meaning savage or fierce (recalling “grimace”, a facial expression of stern disapproval).

In The Prose Edda, the Norse god Odin is also known as Grim or Grimnir, meaning “Masked One,” referring to his ability to shape-shift by means of shamanistic magic – turning into a wolf, bird, fish or whatever. (In mythological terms, the mystery of metamorphosis must be hidden from view, hence the mask.) Odin is the god of the Viking ecstasy cult (the Beserkers) that – according to some – utilised a mysterious drug to induce a sort of shamanistic trance. In this altered state, Odin’s masked and bearskin-clad warriors felt no pain – making them nearly invincible in battle. In the Völsunga Saga, a sorceress (noid) named Grimhild was greatly feared for her witchcraft; of course, a “grimoire” is a manual of black magic for invoking spirits and demons.

The name Grímsson, as borne by the current president, translates as “son of Odin the Masked One”. The president wears the “mask of office,” ceaselessly affirming the positive aspects of Iceland. His role is to shake hands with people, especially queens, kings and dignitaries, and to wave to children. But also he bears the “girdle of the presidency,” continually, stoically suffering in his grim northern-Protestant corset.

I arrived at Bessastadir, the Presidential Residence, located on the Áftanes Peninsula. The starkly beautiful residence stood alone on an intensely green grassy knoll, looking like an Arctic version of the King of Tonga’s Palace. The building was constructed on the historic site of another of Snorri’s farm-mounds.

I was reminded of a famous photo of Richard Nixon at Bessastadir about to meet with President Eldjarn. Just as they were about to shake hands, a gust of wind (as if summoned up by a Lapp sorcerer) knocks Nixon off balance and he makes a peculiar startled expression (click). Nixon referred to Iceland as a “god-forsaken place,” only saved from the stench of fish by the incessant wind. As I stepped out of the car, the same accursed wind (like a mighty snort from the spirit of Snorri) deranged my finely combed long blond hair and shaped it into a Berserker Viking style.

I passed through the heavy wooden front door to be greeted by a gigantic stuffed polar bear. I was ushered into the audience chamber, and there stood Ólafur Ragnar Grímsson. His gorgeous, silvery hair was voluminous and perfectly coifed, not unlike a Lutheran minister’s. The President invited me into the sanctum sanctorum of the Ice Palace.

As we walked through the halls, I spied an enviable array of arctic artifacts, including carved ivory figurines and bizarrely shaped volcanic rocks. We reached the study, lined with antique leather-bound editions of the sagas and Icelandic poetry. The President motioned for me to sit in a carved wooden chair next to an ancient, rough-hewn table looking like a relic from a Viking longhouse.

President Grímsson quoted Genesis: “‘In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth and every living creature therein in six days. And on the seventh day God rested.’ – but here in Iceland we see it somewhat differently. God is still creating in Iceland. Look at the lava flowing from the volcanoes, forming new land. New islands are rising from the ocean depths.”

I agreed: “Oh yes, I’ve seen Surtsey in the Westmann Islands – the youngest island on Earth.”

The President mused, “Who is more recognisable, Matthew Barney or Björk? At a recent art opening it seemed that people paid more attention to Barney than Björk.”

I was amazed that the President of Iceland would bring up Matthew Barney! I replied, “Yeah, Barney worked on the Isle of Man. I think Iceland would be a fantastic location for him to shoot a new Cremaster video.”

I gave the President a copy of my book The World of Jeffrey Vallance: Collected Writings 1978 – 1994, which contained two chapters on Iceland. The President turned to a chapter, grimaced, and read aloud, “‘Iceland, the Gateway to Hell’?” (see p76).

I explained: “It refers to the belief that Mount Hekla is one of the portals to hell.” (The gateway is similar to that in Jules Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth.)

After the audience, as we approached the front door, the President said, “In your book, you mention the Reagan – Gorbachev Summit. Iceland is a place where meetings like that can take place.”

I agreed: “I was hoping for more discussions like that before the war in Iraq began.”

“Yes,” the President replied, “but it didn’t happen that way.”